


The Angel in the House

by afewreelthoughts



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Mental Health Issues, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8885323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afewreelthoughts/pseuds/afewreelthoughts
Summary: When Jane Eyre arrives at Thornfield-Hall, Mr. and Mrs. Rochester and their daughter, Adele, seem like the picture of a perfect family. But when Jane discovers the secrets of the house, she is faced with the choice of accepting what she sees or trying to change it for the better.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [psikeval](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psikeval/gifts).



 

_“And the phantom was a woman, and when I came to know her better I called her after the heroine of a famous poem, The Angel in the House. It was she who used to come between me and my paper when I was writing reviews. It was she who bothered me and wasted my time and so tormented me that at last I killed her.... My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self-defence. Had I not killed her she would have killed me."_

_~ Virginia Woolf, “Professions for Women”_

_“It is vain to say human beings must be satisfied with tranquility: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot find it.” ~ Charlotte Brontë,_ Jane Eyre 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A new chapter in a novel is something like a new scene in a play, and when I draw up the curtain, reader, you must fancy you see the portrait of a perfect family: the strong patriarch, powerful and stern, if not handsome; his dutiful wife, her hands clasped demurely at her lap, her curls tamed; and their daughter, attired with such a cheerful countenance that she makes all who look on the picture believe it is a reality.    

This was the scene that greeted me when I disembarked at Thornfield-Hall. I was met at the door by Mrs. Fairfax, the woman whose advertisement for a governess I had answered. My bags were carried away, and my coat and hat taken at the door. Mrs. Fairfax, whom it turned out was the housekeeper, then hurried me along through the house.

“Mr. and Mrs. Rochester are quite eager to meet you,” she explained. “They have been looking for a governess for their daughter for some time.”

As she spoke, she led me through the manor, which to me seemed part cathedral, part fairy palace, each room grander than the last. I was sure that I was too plain, even at my best, to be worthy of working in such a place, and the long days of travel had left me disheveled and exhausted. I would have liked to retire to my room, change my dress, and fix my hair, but being denied that, I pulled off my gloves as we walked and smoothed my hair and dress as best I could.

Mrs. Fairfax found the family gathered by the fire in a beautifully ornamented white room. The man, who must have been Mr. Rochester, sat on one of the chairs with a book balanced on his knee. His figure looked powerful even in repose. His wife sat in the other chair, eyes demurely lowered to the embroidery in her hands. Her dark hair was pulled back fashionably and was so soft it looked as though a cloud had settled itself about her head.

Their daughter played with a lazy hound lying on the carpet. She pulled at his ears, ran circles around him, and scratched his belly; the last of which had him rolling on his back and pawing at the air.

“Thank you, Mrs. Fairfax,” Mr. Rochester said. His voice was hard as granite, as cold and rough-hewn as the stones that made up Thornfield-Hall.

The housekeeper curtsied and left me alone with the family.

Mr. Rochester turned his eyes to me, heavy brow drawn together over a face as plain as mine. “You’re Miss. Eyre?”

It was not a question, but I felt compelled to respond. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re very young.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you ever worked as a governess before?”

“I studied for many years at Lowood school. I hope my accomplishments are sufficient to teach your daughter.”

“I’m sure they are.” An intensity had crept into Mr. Rochester’s dark gaze that made me feel suddenly vulnerable.

As quickly as it had come, it disappeared.

“This is Adele, our daughter,” he said and gestured to the child. I looked down at where the girl, who looked about seven or eight years old, was now sitting next to the hound, stroking his head and looking up at me.

Adele rose and curtsied. “Pleased to meet you, Miss. Eyre.”

“And I you,” I said.

“Adele, it’s time to go to bed,” Mr. Rochester said. Adele made a face. “I’ll call for Sophie.”

“I can take Adele up, if you wish.”

Mr. Rochester turned back to his book. “Thank you, Miss. Eyre.”

All this time, his wife had said nothing.

By the time I left Adele in her room with her nurse Sophie, dusk had fallen on Thornfield-Hall, and the moon had risen over the moors. I stopped to look out the window at the top of the stairs. Miles and miles of windswept landscape unfolded before me under the moonlight, filled with curving hills and trees hunched against the wind, their tangled branches reaching out before them. This old, beautiful house, so isolated in the wild, should have been the perfect setting for a ghost story, if not for the perfectly normal family that inhabited it. For a moment I wished there were some other inhabitant of Thornfield-Hall, a terrifying creature from Bessie’s tales or a monster from a fairy tale. Looking out on the moonlit moors that night, I could almost convince myself that there was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adele was an intelligent child, but she had little patience for her lessons. She could not sit still and often asked me about subjects that had nothing to do with what we were studying at any particular time. The work was as rewarding as it was trying, however, when I would get through to her.

That particular morning’s lesson, Adele had been listening with far more focus than usual, fascinated by the globe that I had brought in from the library. We had been talking about India, and I had just pointed the country out on the globe, when the girl stared into the distance behind me, not seeming to hear a word I said.

When I turned around, Mrs. Rochester was watching us from the shadowy doorway. For an instant I thought, from the paleness of her dress and her absolute silence, that Thornfield’s ghost was haunting me at last. I jumped nervously and curtsied when I recognized her. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Rochester.”

She said nothing.

Adele sat still, watching her mother almost warily. I would have thought that such a wayward child, upon being surprised in her lessons by her mother, would have darted away from me to her familiar embrace, but Adele simply sat still. “Hello, Mother.”

The ghostly woman stayed wreathed in shadow. “Hello, my dear.”

They both looked as if they had not seen each other in days.

To shatter the eerie silence, I spoke. “I am sorry that I did not notice you.”

The woman did not look my way. “What are you working on with Miss. Eyre?”

“We are studying ge-og-ra-phy,” Adele said, pronouncing each and every syllable in the final word individually.

Mrs. Rochester stepped into the light. She and her daughter had the same dark curls.

Seeing them smiling at each other, I felt moved to speak. “Would you join us?”

Mrs. Rochester looked at me in surprise. “Please, it would not disrupt us at all,” I said, though it felt odd to give permission to the lady of the house where I was a mere employee.

Mrs. Rochester swept into the room and seated herself next to her daughter at the table.

“What else is Miss. Eyre teaching you, Adele?”

“Art! Art is my favorite!” Adele said.

“You’re an artist?” Mrs. Rochester turned to me.

“I draw and I paint,” I said. “That does not make me an artist.”

Mrs. Rochester hesitated, her lips open, as though she were gaining the courage to speak. “May I see your work?”

I had brought my portfolio to Adele’s lessons that day, and produced three of my favorite water color drawings for Mrs. Rochester’s perusal. Adele had liked them, but she was a child. I feared my flights of fancy and improbable subject matter would not please a woman of such refinement.

Mrs. Rochester laid the pictures side-by-side on the table. “You are an artist,” she said. Her eyes were full of love and understanding.

“Thank you,” I said.

“She could teach you, too!” Adele said.

Mrs. Rochester and I both looked up at the same time.

“Jane could teach you to paint!” Adele kicked her legs.

“I’m afraid that’s not…”

“That would be nice,” Mrs. Rochester said. She smiled at me again, and I felt myself blushing.

“Really?”

She picked up the water color closest to her. “You are a real artist.” Her fingers tightened on the corner. Her face changed suddenly, from admiration to wanting to tear the picture in two. Her hand made a fist, crumpling the picture.

“Bertha!” shouted a voice from the hall. Mr. Rochester’s heavy footsteps grew louder and closer until he stood in the open doorway. “Bertha, it’s time to…” He halted at the scene before him.

“Jane’s going to teach mother to paint!” Adele said, jumping up and down in excitement.

Mr. Rochester’s heavy brow knit together.

“It was Adele’s idea,” I said.

“Bertha… will you join Grace Poole in the hall?” her husband said. “She needs you.”

Mrs. Rochester turned to him with the same look she had given my painting: longing, envy, a desire to tear in two. But she rose quietly, keeping my water color crumpled in her fist. “Thank you, Miss. Eyre,” she said to me and drifted from the room.

When she had gone, Mr. Rochester addressed his daughter. “Could you leave Miss. Eyre and I alone for a moment, Adele?” Adele nodded, skipped off to the other side of the room, and sat on the windowsill. Mr. Rochester whispered. “My wife is a fine woman, Miss. Eyre, but she does not do well in the company of strangers.” I wanted to say that I understood, but in truth I did not. “I will see that your picture is returned to you.”

“She can have it if she wishes,” I said. It had been a favorite of mine, but I found that I did not mind the idea of her having it.

Mr. Rochester’s eyes drifted to the table where my other water colors still lay. He stared as if he, too, could not take his eyes off of them, but there was neither love nor hate in his eyes, merely curiosity.

“Where do you get such ideas?” he said.

“My imagination.”

Mr. Rochester pursed his lips and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

“I did not mean to be impolite. I’m sorry, sir.”

“I should hope you have not seen such things in life as giants, fairies, ghosts and…” he drifted off, studying one particular picture, "giant floating heads. If so, you must have the keys to fairyland, and I should fear you.” He looked up.  The intensity returned to his gaze, but this time it did not frighten me.  

“Perhaps you should fear that, sir, because I am convinced that the door to fairyland lies somewhere in this very house.”

“You find Thornfield so fantastic?”

“With the moonlight over the moors, one could believe any number of things about this place."

“I should hope it’s ordinary enough by day,” Mr. Rochester said.

“Ordinary enough."

His eyes searched the pictures again, as if he could not quite find what he was looking for. “Such an imagination…” he said.  With no further words, he left us.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thornfield-Hall grew bustling as the next month passed. Mr. Rochester did business and received calls from friends as his wife floated among the halls less and less often, until she seemed to disappear. Leah, John, and Mrs. Fairfax began to ornament the house in decorations for Christmas. There were parties every week, to which I was invited, but which I only attended for a few minutes.  

It was on one of these festive nights that I decided to explore the house. I crept away from the party early, and no one saw me go.  The third story was all empty rooms filled with antique furniture and gilded with moonlight. I felt as though I had stepped into a place outside of time, suspended from the earthly reality of the party below, and drifted from room to room in a state of wonder.

When I had stepped into the hall, I heard laughter, and the sound sent a chill through my bones. I told myself that a child lived here, and that children are notoriously giddy, but the voice was heavier, older, and darker than Adele's. Just when I convinced myself that I had imagined it, the laugh began again. I followed the sound to the end of the hall and lifted my fist to knock at the door, but hesitated. Yes, the house was full of people, but no one was here with me. If there truly was a ghost or strange creature beyond this door, I would face it alone.  

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall. “Jane!”

“Mr. Rochester?”

Mr. Rochester threw himself between the door and me, gasping from the effort of running after me. I could see only his silhouette.

“What is behind that door?” I said.

“Nothing… that concerns you… please.” He leaned his full weight against the door. “Please… come join.... the party…”

“All right,” I said, more frightened than I had ever been before at Thornfield-Hall.

Mr. Rochester offered me his arm.

“Is that Jane?” a breathy voice said from beyond the door.

Mr. Rochester tightened his grasp on my arm. 

“Is that Jane?” the voice repeated.

“Is that Mrs. Rochester?” I said.

Mr. Rochester took both of my hands in his. “Can I trust you, Jane?”

“Yes,” I said, though he had no reason to.

He knocked on the door, and it opened.

Beyond was a room quite unlike any that I had seen on the third story. It was filled with light and empty of all furnishings but a single chair before the fire, which was itself covered with a heavy grate. In the chair sat Mrs. Rochester, her wrists bound to its arms. She was struggling against her bonds.

“Is she well, Grace?” Mr. Rochester asked.

The stout, red-headed woman whom had opened the door for us shrugged. “She’s been better, sir.”

Mr. Rochester approached his wife. “Bertha?” She stared at him with wild eyes and threw herself forward, but Mr. Rochester pulled away just in time.  He stood up and turned towards me, his face like a storm.

“What have you done to her?” I said.

“Jane, I can explain…” he said.

The laughter began again. It was Mrs. Rochester, her head thrown back in abandon.

“Come with me.” Mr. Rochester pulled at my arm until I followed him. At the end of the hall, he opened the door to one of the rooms and closed it after us. He went to stand by the window, his granite profile looked almost preternatural in the moonlight.

“My wife is insane,” he said. “We take her away to that room when we fear that she might harm anyone. I am keeping her safe from herself.” I thought I could hear an echo of Bertha’s manic laugh.  “I met her when I was traveling to Jamaica as a very young man, and instantly fell madly in love with her charms, her beauty… but I hardly knew her.” He closed his eyes. “She is no longer her old self. You could hardly imagine the joy I felt when she accepted my proposal… a man who looks like me!”

“I could imagine,” I whispered.

“I was so in love that I disregarded the rumors that her family was mad, and her family, for their part, made sure that I never found out.” He turned back to me, casting his face in shadow once again. “I have done everything that I can for my wife, but I cannot let her be a danger to others, or to herself.”

“So you live in fear of her madness, and she in fear of being locked away?”

I could not see his face in the darkness. “I know what his best,” he said, but his heavy voice shook, and he sounded unbelievably sad. “She has days, sometimes weeks, of clarity, and I thought letting her out at those times would calm her…”

Music and laughter drifted up from the party below, in an obscene mockery of the tumult in my head and heart.

“Your guests will miss you,” I said.

Mr. Rochester stepped close to me in the darkness, so close that were nearly touching. “Jane…” he said.

I felt drawn to him in a way I never had before, but the image of his wife tied to a chair pulled me back. “I will stay at Thornfield, and I will teach your daughter, and I will not tell anyone what I have seen tonight.  What more you cannot ask of me, sir?"

He stayed perfectly still.

“I need to go,” I said. When I had shut the door behind me, I ran to my room, blood pounding in my veins. Could I stay at Thornfield-Hall with what I knew? It was the site of a fairy tale indeed: the maiden in the tower, cursed and alone. In the old tales, curses could be broken with love, but there was always a price to be paid.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Weeks passed before I saw Bertha Rochester again. My lessons with Adele continued, and I found myself almost as distracted as my charge. I could not stop thinking about the woman tied to a chair, laughing maniacally. I could not stop thinking about her staring at my pictures with love in her eyes. These two creatures, the angel and the madwoman, were the same person.

Mr. Rochester sought me out week after week, and I avoided him with what I hoped was politeness, but I did not really care if he found me rude. I could not stay at Thornfield-Hall much longer. Every week I swore that I would give Mrs. Fairfax my notice; every week I knew that next week surely I would see Bertha Rochester again, and when I did, I could leave in good conscience. I had only concern for her wellbeing, no curiosity.

One afternoon, as I was packing after my lesson with Adele, I noticed a quiet figure hovering in the doorway. I waited to speak, not wanting to scare her away. When I was done, I smoothed my skirts and stood with my hands folded at my waist.

“How are you, Mrs. Rochester?” I stayed still and silent after she said nothing. “I am going out on the moors to draw tomorrow.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Would you care to join me?”

She stepped into the light, her eyes bright and clear. “I… cannot leave the house.”

“It’s all right with Mr. Rochester,” I lied.

“It’s cold out there,” she said.

“It’s the perfect place for inspiration,” I said. “And I promised to teach you, didn’t I?”

I wondered then, and not for the first time, how her husband would react if he found out, but once more I found that I did not care. This woman might be mad, but that was no reason to shut her away from the world.

Christmas was over, and all the guests had left Thornfield-Hall. I helped Mrs. Rochester bundle herself against the cold. She fumbled with her coat, and I wondered when she had last been out of the house. I held her arm gently in my left hand and carried my supplies in my right.

The cold seemed to invigorate her. She watched the clouds her breath made in front of her and smiled.

I looked back at Thornfield-Hall as we walked to the slope I had found the day before, where John had set out chairs and easels for us. Mr. Rochester was watching us from a window on the third story.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked her.

She nodded.

I gave her a stick of charcoal, pulled out a second for myself, and began to sketch. She sat still and watched me for several minutes.

“How do you do that?” she asked eventually.

“It is a matter of dividing the space in front of you into shapes,” I said and went to stand behind her. “Look out in front of you. Look at how much of what you can see is sky and how much is earth.”

She made a sweeping curve across her paper that mimicked the rolling hills in front of us.

“Don’t lie about what you see. Even if it what is in front of you does not seem to make any sense."

“When do we start on the fairies and floating heads?” she said and smiled.  She kept sketching, and as she did, her hands began to shake.

“Are you all right?”

“I used to be so good at this…” She crumbled the charcoal, coating her hands with it.

I pulled out my handkerchief and began to clean her hands. “Then it should not take much time for you to remember.”

The handkerchief did little good, only smearing the charcoal from her hands onto mine and our dresses. When I looked up to apologize, there was a look of ferocity in her eyes as she stared out over the moors. The woman whose hands I held might have been an angel, but she was magnificent and wild, as though she were about to satisfy God’s vengeance, speak prophecy, or fly into the horizon on wings of gold. She pulled off her hat, and her hair, caught in the wind, spun around her.

“I cannot… I cannot bear to be locked away another day, Jane,” she whispered.

"I know," I said. I reached up to brush her hair out of her eyes.  

She caught my hand in hers and kissed it. In the next moment, I found my lips on hers. My cheeks did not flush, for there was no one else there to see. When we parted, she shook her head. 

“Do not think you can cure me, Jane. No one can cure me.”

My lips were tingling. "I don't want to cure you," I said. "But I cannot stand to see you locked away."

We both looked back up at Thornfield-Hall. Mr. Rochester was no longer standing by the window.

"I cannot ask you to stay," she said. "This place is old and I don't think anyone can be happy here."

I clasped her hands in mine and kissed her again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I cleaned up as well as I could before that evening. Mr. Rochester had asked me to dinner when I returned to the house, and I said yes.

He was not in the dining room at the appointed time, however, so I wandered through the house until I found him in the same white room where I had met his family months before. He was staring into the fire. “You wanted to see me?” I said.

“What am I to do, Jane?” The coldness had entirely melted from his voice. He sounded helpless. “I love my wife. I cannot commit her to an asylum.” I shuddered at the thought. “But the danger she poses…”

"What danger?"

"She... the madness that runs in her family causes its victims to... lash out at the world around them violently. You saw what she did to your picture."

"An inanimate object."

"And she fights with me and Grace Poole."

"When you try to tie her to chair?"

He put his face in his hands.

“Why do you keep her inside?” I said.

“She tried to run away after I brought Adele home.”

“Adele is not her child?” I said, and when I did, it made perfect sense.  

“No,” he said. “My wife grew… ill not long after we married, and I looked for comfort elsewhere. Can you blame me?" When I said nothing, he laughed, a harsh sound. "You should."

“She cannot be kept inside forever.”

“Can you imagine a woman like that left to her own devices in the world?”

“I don’t need to imagine it, I have seen it!" I knelt in front of him. "She was happy!”

He looked at me, melancholy written in every line on his face.  "With you."

I felt a tingling on my lips again and then a pang of guilt. I could not judge him.

"I have no idea what to do, Jane.  You're a learned woman.  Teach me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I stood for nearly an hour outside Mr. Rochester's bedroom door, a letter clasped in my hands. I felt like a young and foolish child. The family deserved my goodbyes, and I had no right to - 

The door swung open.

"You've been out there a long time," Mr. Rochester said.  

I merely handed him the letter.

He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and angled the paper so that it caught the light of his candle.

_Dear Mr. Rochester,_

he read aloud.

_I would like to thank you for your great hospitality in the time that I have spent here at Thornfield-Hall. I regret that I cannot stay, but your wife said something that convinced me today. She said that no one can be happy in a house like this; and though I believe it to be the door to fairyland, I think I agree. There are too many ghosts._

_I think, in another world, you and I could have lived here and been happy. I hope that in leaving we have given you a chance to forge a new life for yourself, one with fewer secrets and more freedom for everyone you love._

_Yours,_

_Jane Eyre_

He kissed my hand.  "Goodbye, Jane. Take care of her for me."

"I'll try," I said.  

He shut the door, and as he did, another opened.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide! I hope that you enjoyed this story and that it fulfilled the desired prompt!
> 
> I cannot imagine an AU in which Jane and Mr. Rochester have no chemistry, nor do I think he is necessarily to blame for his wife's suffering. The society these characters live in offers them few choices, and rarely good ones. But nor do I think that he could have happily ridden off with Jane and Bertha at the end of this version of the story.
> 
> I know first person point of view is rarely used in fanfiction for good reason, but when I revisited the source material, I had a hard time imagining writing this story from any other pov.


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